Hush Tag
by don't take me seriously
Summary: "Tarrlok reflects on the mundanity of playground games, how they often hide a more sinister or adult purpose." Amorralok. Amon, Korra, Tarrlok...in all directions. Rated for sexytimes and character death and incest and mindfuck. yep. A collaboration with savagelee.


**By Savagelee and I~**

**Dedicated to Masksarehot.**

_"Tarrlok reflects on the mundanity of playground games, how they often hide a more sinister or adult purpose."_

**Warnings:** Dub-con, I'd maybe go so far as to call a part of it non-con, just to be safe. And lots and lots of sex. yes. Oh and complete and utter mindfuckery. And character death. And incest. All in one happy fic! oops.

As a normally happy child, Korra hardly cried when she was at the compound. During times of great restlessness, she would escape under the spirit lights and pretend she was on an adventure. Instead of friends her age, she would pretend that the spirits were with her.  
Over the years, she became better at hiding the scrapes and wettened clothes as she frolicked and rode through the snow with Naga like the heroines in old Water Tribe lore, like the one who ran to the ends of the earth to retrieve her lover from the evil frost queen. She rode the sea until it tired, and then she flew through the wind. After she defeated the monsters and the queen, she became the leader of the realm. Korra held her head high then. She never had time for games like the normal Water Tribe children, but she found ways to entertain herself. Mostly pranks and fantastical tales Katara would tell Korra with a gleam in her wise eyes, with that crinkling of her cheeks as she smiled.  
Now, Korra fidgets, pacing in her room. The night sky is dark and without the spirits, lording over a land where gadgets and leisure have replaced old blood and soil. When she first arrived here, Korra gazed out of her window and pondered about-uh, things. Dumb things not normal for the girl who would sniff brownish snow and ask one of guards if it was safe to eat. Things with Mako. That was before she dreamed that the Equalists crawled through the shroud of night like demonic spirits with black, slick skin like oil. And her window was the gateway as the main one entered, the one with a skeleton for a face.  
Amon, with one moment of weakness, can unravel about thirteen years of hard work, of carving out her identity. What is she without her bending? Who else can she be? Like Amon, she's not just a normal person. She's bigger than life, as haughty as that sounds. The Avatar masters the four elements and brings balance to the world. It's never been anything different. She won't live to see herself ruin the legacy, for a biographical text to be published in about three centuries that reads, The Avatar Who Tried and Failed.  
Her polar bear-dog looks at her worriedly and whimpers. Smiling without conviction, Korra pats her companion's head and says, "Naga, what am I going to do?"  
She straightens her back, looking straight at the window and moving to fling it open. She promises herself that she won't let Amon steal anything from her. Anything. She's not the trapped lover; she's the girl who rides the sea. Korra is the Avatar. As air tickles her face, Korra thinks that she will be set if only she will learn how to fly with the wind.

"Hush tag is a children's game in the Northern Water tribe," Tarrlok explains, after they are done task-force training. "Though past a certain age it tends to be rather…inappropriate. The 'it' person has to kiss the person of their choice on the lips; that person becomes 'it' and the 'it' person is out of the game."  
"That sounds dirty!" Korra laughs.  
"It's just a kid's game," he says defensively, as she continues to laugh. "Kids don't think that kissing is sexual. They just trample around and try to avoid it as much as possible. Hush tag is like a rite of passage."  
"Well then, I guess you're it," Korra says, catching him off guard, presses her lips to his.  
She's just being playful he tells himself, but it escalates, becomes anything but child's play. The snow they fall into, giggling, is not snow but bedsheets, and it's not really hush tag, he tells himself, because hush tag cannot be played by two, it does not end with one kiss but continues, and there is no way he can claim innocence to the acts which transpire.

Despite that horrible moment when Amon emerged from the darkness and had her kneeling before him, Korra travels alone to Aang's memorial to find peace. It's the closest she's been to her past lives except for Aang's widow, son, and kids. Her first visit there was the first encounter she had with something unexplainable. Well, something mystical and separate from the nonbending extremists who overpowered her. Her mentors often asked if she had visions, reported that she was all force and no flowers and fluffy words.  
"C'mon Aang," she murmurs restlessly, "tell me something. About you. About Amon. Anything."  
Hopefully the same trauma from before isn't needed for a second visit from Aang, but she waits. Crosses and uncrosses her legs as the night breeze ruffles her hair. Time to be the leaf, though she might just get knocked down instead if she stands. Korra does whatever she can to imagine probending, airbending training, anything but being trapped underneath the statue. Anything but Amon towering before her as he reached to touch her forehead. He hesitated and instead grabbed her chin and, and this, weird, super-weird emotion flooded her throat.  
Apparently, her attempts at thinking of something else are failing. Korra's eyes snap open and her shoulders tense. This is the fourth time she's been here, yet it feels different. Just-wrong. As if there's someone there with her, and it's not a friendly spirit.  
Korra sighs, scratching her cheek and easing her shoulders down in resignation. What she'd give to have Naga with her, to lose sight of the city as she rests her head on the gentle fur and forgets where she is.  
"I'm losing it." Joints aching, she rises, goes to turn. Korra smells incense.  
"You aren't the only who seeks peace, Avatar." And he's there, Amon is right before her, and it has to be a dream. When she lunges to throw a fireball and make that stupid mask melt to his face permanently, he overwhelms her, and her limbs turn to jelly as her chi is blocked. He's too fast, as fluid in his movements as an unblocked river. And as forceful as one as he lifts her when she collapses against him and tries to scream. She can't struggle, can't stop herself from being swept away again.

Tarrlok doen't understand the game Korra is playing. He's a master manipulator, a schmoozing politician, and he's always hit it off well with the ladies. Korra however, is the type of girl who turns heads, who makes boys her age grovel at her feet. So he can't bring himself to understand why she chose him, why she chooses the secrecy and taboo of his embrace over the giggling and open displays of affection sought by many her age. Perhaps Korra is an old soul.  
He chuckles, then. Of course, she's an old soul, he thinks, and the irony of that statement shakes him with laughter until it hurts.

Korra doesn't scream. The air is knocked out of her as she lands on the memorial floor, her leg muscles seizing as she flails what she can, trying to kick him. Amon quickly remedies what little freedom she has. When she fell against him outside, it was shock. Now she's paralyzed, fully helpless.  
He doesn't undress her fully as he's on top of her and she peers into the hollows of his mask and begs, begs those eyes that are gray and blue and gold and all of the colors of light as their clothes press against each other.  
When it happens, when her pants are removed and he enters her, it still hurts and then, then she finally cries out. Even though she's been with Tarrlok, it's worse than her first time. Tarrlok, with all of his annoying habits, wasn't abrupt with her. She set the pace. Here, Korra isn't the Avatar. This isn't supposed to be happening.  
His fingers pinch her thighs and she'll surely have bruises as he lifts her legs, though it doesn't hurt too much because she's mostly numb. Doesn't hurt as much as their joining.  
Korra whispers frantically. Just blurts words out. Why? Leave me alone. I hate you.  
She doesn't close her eyes, hoping that he sees just what she thinks of him, sees that she knows that the great Amon is not the heroic savior like he boasts to his subordinates. Her eyes shine like brilliant stones, like agate. She's sticky, and it's all like waves crashing together and she's tumbling down helplessly. When the sensation returns to her limbs, Korra punches his shoulder, grabs his hood and pulls it back. He takes her arms and restrains her, pinning them over her head.  
And suddenly it's not so bad. Korra wants him to hurt her and hear her whimpers so he can realize that he's just as disgusting as those he verbally defames. He's a man, an awful, sick man. And it almost makes her relax. Korra doesn't feel quite as violated, and she is (kind of, sort of, only a little) satisfied by the end of it, when his restrained groans stop and she's warm inside, when she curls into herself and the blood throbbing between her ears makes it so she that she can't hear him depart.  
"I made you! You're mine!"  
A voice fills her head as she closes her eyes, harsh and booming. It isn't Amon, and she guesses that more trauma is the key to spirituality after all. Great.

"Got you!" Noatak shouts, throwing his arms around his brother's back. Tarrlok squeals like a pigseal, caught off guard, and Noatak pins him down in the snow, pressing his nose against him. The other kids are hiding by now- they knew when Noatak was 'it' that he was a terrifying force to behold, although girls would frequently let him catch them on purpose, for whatever reason.  
"Hey! You're my brother! You can't tag me! That's gross!" Tarrlok protests, and Noatak grins at him as he flails dramatically, kissing him on the forehead and putting his finger over his lips.  
"Shh Tarrlok don't be such a baby. Tag!" he shouts joyfully, and plows through the snow.

Later that day, they found out Noatak was a waterbender.

When Korra goes to "discuss task force strategies" with Councilman Tarrlok, she commends herself for not choking up as she lies to Tenzin. It's a habit now, she guesses. Last night, after Amon defiled, probed, fucked her, she didn't break down into a thousand pieces in her airbending master's arms (like last time) as she deceived him.  
"Sorry I'm late. Fell asleep."  
"On the ground?"  
"Y-Yeah."  
Speaking too soon about her skills of constructing plans, Korra thinks nothing of it when an unclothed Tarrlok undresses her slowly in his office, the water skating over the stone-engraved depictions of Tui and La behind them and the gushing sound making her eyes droop. She doesn't notice his forehead crease in consternation as he glances at her wrists and thighs. Korra is sitting on his desk, and she nuzzles his neck. He suddenly pulls away and clutches one wrist, not unkindly, and holds her arm up between them.  
"Korra, what are these from?" he asks, his eyes cold. She frowns before realizing that she hasn't healed the marks from last night. She just kept her arms at her side, didn't really think there was any way Tenzin or her friends could see through her pants to catch a glimpse of, uh, there.  
"I'm sorry," she whispers, looking down. Tarrlok releases her arm and clasps her chin insistently in his hands so their eyes meet. He's inscrutable, and she falters.  
Korra says quietly, "Hold on before you get mad." Her hands on top of his as she presses her cheek into the soothing heat, she continues, "I-I was meditating. Or I was actually failing at meditating. And then-then Amon showed up, and he, he chi-blocked me. I couldn't resist him, and he-h-he, um, um, yeah."  
A pause. "He-?"  
"He fucked me." It's vulgar, but it's true. There's no pretty way to word what happened. They fucked like frenzied fox-monkeys.  
Tarrlok's fingers twitch, and his nose flares. "That monster."  
Korra moves her head slightly as if in disagreement. "I liked it though."  
"No," Tarrlok says, "he used you, Korra. He's cruel." Sadly, he adds, "You haven't healed these?"  
Korra smirks ruefully. "I guess I needed a reminder." They kiss, and Tarrlok is hesitant, gentle as his hands roam her body. He asks if she's sure, if she needs any help, and she asks him to make her forget, that's all. There's no teeth or nails, and it's agonizing how long he's taking. Korra expects that it's to take her mind off of her ordeal, and when he leans to push her down tenderly, she stops him and scoots off of the desk, commanding that he lay on it.  
During their lovemaking, Korra rides him quickly, leaning over and gasping. He murmurs her name repeatedly, and she feels wanted, needed. Like an Avatar, like the heroine and not the demure lover.

Amon looks at the girl, he senses her fear, and part of him wants to assuage it, to make her aware of his innocence because all Amon wants is to see his dream of equality equalized, to squelch the voice of dissent that dares call out and say what he's doing is wrong, and it's her, she's the obstacle in his way that he must destroy.  
She does not resist when he pushes her against the wall, and he thinks to himself, spirits, why does she want this, why are her eyes begging him, why does she allow him to strip her of her clothing and ravish her like a woman unbecoming of her title. He wants to love her desperately but knows himself incapable, pushes himself inside of her after the slightest hesitation, because damn it, he may be a monster but Tarrlok isn't any better, and she fucks him, right?  
Korra enjoys it, much to his disappointment, she moans and thrashes and squirms in pleasure, no matter how rough he is, no matter how unloving or cruel, and all he can do about it is continue to give her what he wants, to take out his frustration on this girl as though her feelings are meaningless.  
"Do you love anyone, Avatar," he rasps, he clutches her neck as though to choke her. "Do you think of me when you fuck him?"  
"No," she whispers, in response to which question he is unaware, because they both come shortly after and his time is running short.

Korra doesn't know everything about Tarrlok, doesn't know where this is going. The way he caresses her, his mane of hair tickling her cheeks. Their joining is sad, but Korra doesn't really know why. Maybe it's because of the toll the Equalist revolution has taken on the city, the people captured or broken like they may be one day; maybe it's because their relationship is doomed. It'll never be a sweet, domestic thing where he sits at the dinner table and reads the newspaper, smiling and joking and laughing with her. It'll always be political with days where they'll hardly see each other, times where he won't reciprocate her affections because he'll be tired and he's not twenty anymore.  
Sometimes he hurts her, and she'll moan and ask him to stop. He'll apologize profusely and touch her cheek, shower her with bleary kisses and promise to buy her something.  
It makes her dizzy how often Tarrlok shifts from a smarmy politician to a considerate lover to not speaking to her because there's an undercurrent of darkness sifting through him. When Korra asks about the past, he deflects. They're okay now, and that's what matters. Perhaps she will never figure out his deepest secrets, and part of Korra tells herself that lying in bed with her cheek on his collarbone is enough. But only part of her.

Tarrlok reflects on the mundanity of playground games, how they often hide a more sinister or adult purpose.

"Get off of me, you creep!" Amon pulls her into the alley as she walks to the temple at night after hanging out with the Fire Ferret brothers and Asami at this neat joint that serves Water Tribe food. Her breath smells like fish.  
"Funny Avatar, you've never so openly rejected my advances before."  
When Korra struggles and shoves him away, he is still there.  
"What's wrong with you?" she demands.  
He doesn't answer. Instead, so unlike him, Amon begins rubbing her cheek. Softly, sweetly. Instead of bare skin, he's wearing gloves. It's probably a mocking gesture, trying to break her down.  
Her eyes soften, her glare dissipating, and she wonders who is really behind that mask. If he's really just someone angry at the war, someone who feels justified. His eyes, his voice, it all shifts to his will. Gold to gray to blue, guttural to jeering. Like so many times before, Korra holds her tongue as she's shoved unceremoniously against the wall. Her eyes burn.  
I'm sorry.  
She thinks of Tarrlok with the rough grip on her hips, wraps her arms around Amon's neck, the fabric of his cloak brushing her skin as she leans and her forehead is on his mask, so cold and unyielding. She thinks of the first time Tarrlok wrapped his arms around her and made her feel all right, tries to hear even a faint resemblance between Tarrlok's moans and the gasps behind the porcelain. Everything is colder.

"You've been distant lately," Tarrlok says, his fingers steepled under his chin, his elbows on his desk. Miraculously, they've managed to keep their clothes on for more than five minutes. "Is there something you haven't told me?"  
Korra meets his eyes, her mind just dim and muddled. She's been sneaking around, hiding her affairs from those who trust and love her. Actually love her. However, there's nothing to confirm any of Tarrlok's possible suspicions. Hopefully. No spies to see her groping Amon. Surely Tarrlok trusts her to the point of not sinking low enough to invade her privacy.  
There's so much you haven't told me, Tarrlok.  
"No," Korra says tersely, knotting her hands into fists with her arms straight by each side. She stands tall, but the office atmosphere sends goosebumps up her arms. "I'm fine."  
I really am getting good at this lying thing, Korra thinks sadly. Well, if she can fool Tarrlok, that is.

Tarrlok eyes the chest in the corner of his room, imagining its contents with a shiver, the snow-white mask with its bloody sun emblem, the gray clothes and the armor, folded neatly and shoved under piles of books, wrapped in parchment. Korra's hand slides across his cheek, he leans in to kiss her and imagines his lips pressing against another's, rough and hard, teeth digging into the skin desperately, then the whispered words in his ear-  
Hush  
Tarrlok pulls away, looks into Korra's frightened eyes, can only see the face of his brother, his brother at 15, pressing his lips chastely to Tarrlok's forehead before he left, "Don't cry, Tarrlok, ssh," and looks past her, through the window and out into the city with its beautiful lights.  
A few weeks ago...has it really only been weeks since it happened? A few weeks ago Amon had climbed through that window as Tarrlok prepared for bed, had strode across the tiled floor, resisted his bloodbending and pushed up his own mask just enough to show teeth, pressed his lips to Tarrlok's and kissed him tenderly, and all Tarrlok could do was kiss back, screaming in panic and disgust but only in his mind- no, no, this is wrong; it's wrong.  
"Tag."  
He willed the man's organs to fail, bloodbended so hard that his opponent's heart stopped beating, Amon's lips smiled against Tarrlok's and he collapsed in his enemy's arms, Tarrlok let him hit the floor like the disgusting sack of flesh and blood he was, straddled him and removed the mask fully, triumphantly, and stared down at the placid, dead face of his brother in confusion.  
He'd crushed his heart to a bloody pulp, sheer panic shooting through his body and adrenaline pounding in his head like war drums. His brother. Dead. He grimaced and clutched the man's shirt. Then he smiled. Amon. Dead. Then he laughed. He laughed until he cried, holding the mask in his hands and let the tears fall onto his dead brother's face and knew this was it- no, he was 'it,' Noatak had given up the game, and now it was his turn.

He's distant, remembering.  
Korra burries her head in his chest, desperate for refuses to kiss her. He puts his mouth on every inch of her body it can reach, but never touches her lips, tries not to look her in the eyes. When they are finished, Korra sits up and she cries, dark water stains plopping onto his bedsheet. He's already up and dressing himself, beyond comforting her, but turns with a regretful look.  
"You know this can't go on forever," he tells her.  
"Tarrlok..."  
"How can you give yourself to me if you're still fucking him like an animal whenever I'm not around?"  
"Tarrlok!-"  
"Finish things...please...just end this now," he begs, and Korra bites her lower lip and turns away shamefully and then looks back and nods-  
"Ok. Ok, I will."  
She stands, dresses herself, and then she's gone and his only companionship is memory once more.  
"This time, will you please...stay dead?"

"I'm not going to let him control me anymore," Korra tells herself as she walks the rain-damp city streets, determined. If she says it enough, it'll fix this. She lingers, hardly meeting anyone as she walks. The victims, her strength-it'll all be avenged. It seems like days, but in reality, it must only be a few hours. When she's about to fall asleep standing, Amon arrives. He twists her around, pins her against an abandoned alley. Korra steels herself.  
Amon doesn't notice when she bends a puddle and it freezes to an edge in her hands, doesn't know until she pushes him back and he growls, probably suspecting that she's teasing, and Korra jams it just below his ribcage. He shudders, eyes widening behind his mask.  
She does it again and again, stopping her tears. He deserves it all for the lives he's ruined. The coward, the monster.  
Amon crumples in a bloody heap against the brick wall, and looking at the red dot on his mask makes Korra think. She deserves to see. She's the heroine, and he's the monster. This is her sword.  
Staggering, shaking, dropping to her knees as her weapons turns to slush, she begins to take his hood off, hesitating at the sensation of running her fingers through his hair, and then she unclasps the mask, and-  
She stares. She just stares in horror, mouth agape. Korra tries to speak once, twice. Then-  
"T-Tarrlok?" He returns her gaze emptily, a hand clutching his wound uselessly. He coughs, choking, gurgling, and it splits her in two.  
"Why? You . . ." His visage contorts in sorrow, then resignation. Tarrlok shakes his head as she tries to heal him, as she begs for him to heal himself. He presses a finger to her lips. It tastes of his blood. It smears onto her skin, and she starts to cry.  
"Shh," he says, eyes glinting with a silent plea. He uses the last of his energy to kiss her, and no, no, he can't want this. Then his lips leave her and she embraces him. Sobbing relentlessly against his chest, her clothes stained with blood, it takes a few minutes for his body to become cold.  
Korra is no longer the heroine or the lover. She's freezing, sullied beyond words. When she runs out of tears, her face full of snot and blood, she looks over to where she discarded what hid his face. Korra stares. And she stays there for an eternity.  
Then, swallowing thickly, everything smelling of his blood, she picks the mask up and stands.

"Tag," she whispers.


End file.
